Little Miss Matchmaker. Dana Corbit

knew the child he adored better than he did.

      “So it’s not her grades?”

      She shook her head. “She’s just so withdrawn and depressed. It’s as if all the sunshine has been lifted out of her eyes.”

      That was it. As much as he’d known there was something different about Chelsea, he hadn’t been able to describe it. Dinah’s description had put his thoughts into words.

      “In class, she’s so distracted that I had to move her desk away from the window to get her to pay attention,” she continued. “Still, I can barely get her to participate in classroom activities.”

      Dinah planted her elbows on her desk and rested her chin in the V formed by her hands. “She used to make all this beautiful artwork, and now she doesn’t even want to color. She let herself be eliminated from the class Spelling Bee in the first round when I know full well she remembered that the e comes before the i in receive. You know, that i before e except after c…”

      She stopped herself when she glanced up and caught him grinning at her. Shrugging, she smiled back at him. It was obvious that Miss Fraser loved teaching, and she was proving by this meeting that she loved her students, as well. If he’d ever had a teacher like her, maybe his own academic records would have leaned closer to the beginning of the alphabet instead of a few letters in.

      He must have looked at her a little too long because Dinah blushed prettily and glanced away. Dinah Fraser might be used to getting more than her share of male attention, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with it. She would have laughed if she’d realized that at least this time his thoughts weren’t on her appearance at all.

      Still, he wondered how he could have lived in the area a whole year without ever meeting her.

      “Fraser. I’ve heard that name before around here. Do you have relatives in Chestnut Grove?”

      “Yes, there are a lot of us around.”

      When she didn’t elaborate, Alex figured it was time to quit procrastinating. No matter how out of character it was for him, he needed to ask this woman for help.

      “So…ah…what suggestions do you have for helping Chelsea outside of school?”

      “Does Chelsea talk about her mom at home?”

      He shrugged, frustration replacing his earlier discomfort at asking for help. “Not much. In fact not at all unless Karla’s just called, and even then it’s just to say that her mom says hi and she’s doing fine.”

      “It might help her to talk more about her mother’s illness or the danger her dad’s facing, or both. She could even keep a journal, writing down feelings.”

      Alex frowned. He’d known she shouldn’t keep her feelings bottled up, but he felt powerless trying to help her. “She doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

      “You know there’s a difference between want and need. She needs to talk about her feelings, and if she won’t initiate the conversations, you might have to. Either that or I can have her talk to the school counselor.”

      “No, that’s okay.” Counselor. He didn’t even like the sound of that word. It was bad enough asking the teacher for help, but asking some professional counselor would be like admitting failure. Like admitting he couldn’t handle the situation when he’d promised Karla he would.

      Instead of arguing for counseling as he expected—he’d always thought that women single-handedly financed the counseling industry—she nodded. “Be prepared, though. There might be a lot of tears when she finally opens up.”

      Alex shivered at the notion. “You sure know how to kill a guy.”

      “Where is Chelsea now?”

      Alex glanced at his watch. “She’d be off the bus now. My next-door neighbor stays with Brandon and Chelsea until I get home from work. I know it isn’t a perfect situation.”

      “You’re doing the best you can. It has to be good enough.”

      He doubted that whatever he did would be good enough. But she was right. He was doing the best he could. He’d had to call in favors from all of his fellow firefighters to even be able to temporarily pull weekday eight-to-five shifts when usual shifts were twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off. He didn’t know how long he could expect his coworkers to make concessions for him so he could care for his cousin’s children.

      “How’s Brandon doing with having a babysitter?”

      “He doesn’t fight me too much on it anymore, not since I told him the sitter was really for Chelsea. It’s about the only thing he doesn’t fight me on lately.”

      “Sounds like a normal teenager.”

      Alex frowned. He didn’t have a clue what normal teenagers did, and he barely remembered his own teen years.

      “You’ve had an introduction to parenting by fire.”

      “What do you mean?” he asked, cocking his head.

      “Oh.” She straightened, drawing her hands into her lap. “I guess I just assumed this was your first parenting experience. Since you weren’t…uh…wearing a wedding ring or anything. But I guess I shouldn’t assume…anything nowadays….”

      Dinah let her words fall away, her blush deepening with each of her awkward comments. The familiar need to protect and preserve filled Alex, and he didn’t even have on his gear. He hated making her feel this uncomfortable even if he was secretly pleased that she’d admitted to checking his hand for a wedding band.

      “Assume away. I don’t have any little Alexes running around anywhere. I’m a bit traditional when it comes to the marriage-before-kids order of things. And I’ve never done the first, so…”

      She nodded as he let his words fall away, but her cheeks were still stained pink.

      His gaze lowered to her hand again, where she wore nothing more significant than a thin gold pinkie ring. Her title had given him the heads-up that she was unmarried, but he still was surprised that she didn’t even wear an engagement ring. She probably had to dodge proposals left and right.

      “Then we’re even,” she said finally.

      “Even?”

      “No kids.”

      “At least you have some training with them.”

      She smiled. “Nothing like the on-the-job variety you’re getting.”

      “Training,” he said, scoffing at her comment. “I guess you could call it that. But usually in on-the-job training you have a supervisor to tell you if you’re doing things wrong. I hope I’m not messing these kids up forever.”

      “They’ll be fine.” She paused long enough to give him a smile that could warm the North Pole by a few degrees. “Kids are resilient and forgiving, just like hostas. Ever planted a hosta?”

      She must have seen his incredulous look because she explained. “Hostas are really hardy perennials. Pretty much no matter what you do to them, they’ll still come back in the spring.”

      “So if your analogy holds true, Chelsea and Brandon will survive no matter what I do to—”

      She was shaking her head before he’d presented the whole premise. “The theory need not be tested.” But she smiled as she said it.

      “Good. Do I look like the kind of man who might grow hostas?” He raised his hand as a sign to stop her. “Wait. Don’t answer that. My masculinity might be bruised.”

      “Probably not. You didn’t strike me as the green-thumbed type.”

      “What type did I strike you as?” He took an unhurried look at her, waiting for her to glance away. For the longest time she didn’t, and it surprised him how dry his mouth was by the time she did.

      “Don’t